


Under Blood And Rust; There Lies Glory

by Kissed_by_Circe



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Jon is a Dork, Sansa is a museum curator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 04:31:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16737151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kissed_by_Circe/pseuds/Kissed_by_Circe
Summary: He’d sound like a fool in love, if he ever said something like that, and so he swallows the words that lie on his tongue, stares at the grim face of King Durran and hums in agreement when she lounges into a passionate monologue about gods and kings and love, and he can’t help but wonder who hurt her so much that she states ‘It’s just a pretty little lie, a fairy-tale. Love’s not real.’Jon is a regular at the museum Sansa works at, and they’re slowly falling in love, but they’re too scared to tell the other about their feelings.





	Under Blood And Rust; There Lies Glory

**Author's Note:**

> None of the characters belong to me - obvs XD 
> 
> Not a native speaker, so please excuse grammar and spelling mistakes ❤️

The heels of her pretty t-strap heels click loudly on the old, worn cement tiles, the lithic walls and ceilings throwing the sharp sound back at her, a welcome distraction in these quiet halls, he thinks.

 

In the beginning, he came here for the silence, for the flocks of dust dancing like starlings in the bright rays of sun streaming through windows and pillars as tall and slim as trees, for the pasty and solemn faces staring at him from where they are locked in frames of carved wood and cracking leaf gildings. It’s a bit like the calm before the storm – gold glinting brilliantly, blindingly, like leaves being illuminated by the sun before it’s swallowed by dark clouds, and greys with a hint of blue like the fingers of the night.

 

He came here to think and to forget, he came for peace and quiet, for muted colours and stuffy dark rooms with too much wood panelling that’s hidden behind too many oil paintings. Instead he found crimson and fox-red and thousand shades of powdery colours he can’t name, murmured conversations that make his mind go blank and a breathless, silent laughter that he’d like to _hear_ one day.

 

He keeps looking at the oil painting right in front of him – a grim looking Durran Godsgrief in front of a wind battered castle, painted by some a court painter back in the seventh century – when her steps come closer, not looking up when she rounds the corner nor when she stops next to him, her arms crossed over her russet silk blouse, starring at the portrait like he does.

 

Jon’s seen her wander around the exhibitions and working on displays for almost half a year, but he’d only approached her once: Two months ago, when he’d mustered up the courage to compliment her on the tiny details he noticed in the displayed bedroom of a princess from the third century.

 

He wouldn’t have ever bothered her again if she hadn’t smiled at his stuttering, sweet and gentle, and told him a bit about her work. A week later, when he’d come in to see the display again, she’d found him in front of a battle plan and asked him about his favourite era, and he made her _laugh_ – he’d had to make a joke about a former Hand of the King and constipation, but it was worth it.

 

She comes over to him whenever she sees him – once or twice a week – ever since, and there’s a light feeling in his chest because she _chooses_ to do so, apparently neither annoyed nor frightened by his presence or the way he stares darkly at battle scenes. In the beginning, she seemed nervous and greeted him like other visitors – ‘Welcome to the Red Keep Museum’ and ‘Oh, you’re interested in this and that?’ – but now she’s comfortable around him, or so he likes to think. She just stands next to him, and he waits for her to speak, a question or a funny comment about something.

 

“He always reminds me of a boulder, like – he just planted himself there, and said ‘Here I stand’ and refused to yield, not to the storm or the sea, not even to the _gods_. I envy him, and I pity him.” Her voice is soft and dulcet, but there’s a hint of steel hidden in it, he knows. She’s a lot stronger than she looks.

 

“But he had his Elenei, and he defied the gods and nature itself just to be with her.”, he murmurs, still not looking at her. He can’t think straight when he looks at her, because he’s too busy drowning in the sapphire depths of her eyes or counting the semi-transparent freckles that peek out from under her auburn, fox-red, copper hair.

 

He’d sound like a fool in love, if he ever said something like that, and so he swallows the words that lie on his tongue, stares at the grim face of King Durran and hums in agreement when she lounges into a passionate monologue about gods and kings and love, and he can’t help but wonder who hurt her so much that she states ‘It’s just a pretty little lie, a fairy-tale. Love’s not real.’

 

He wants to hurt that person, _badly_ , but he wants to hold her tight and keep her safe and make sure she’s never sad again even more. He wants to ask her if she’d like to see him outside the museum, just for a coffee or a mug of tea, but he doesn’t, because that’s not how their friendship works, and so he just waits for her to make the first step.

 

* * *

 

“Miss Stark, hello, how are you?” Professor Yandel mooches around in the doorway to her office, his horn rimmed-glasses slightly askew, his gangly, tweed-covered arms crossed over his chest in an attempt to look casual and relaxed, but he stumbles when she gets up and, grabbing her pale red cardigan from her chair, steps into the hallway.

 

“You don’t have to ask, Professor”, she sighs softly, “I’m ready to give our best sponsor a wonderful tour and talk her into funding an exhibition about the resistance during the Second Great War. I’m prepared.”, and, in response to the surprise she can see on her boss’ face, “I knew that you’d ask me to take over from Leo as soon as you mentioned that Mrs Targaryen wanted a tour for her three children, since Leo, as you already know, _hates_ children.”

 

And with a small shrug, she’s on her way to the entrance, not looking back at the perplexed director. It’s true that she’d known for weeks that Leo wouldn’t give them a tour – at least not without a mental breakdown and ~~him~~ someone yelling around – so she’d come prepared.

 

She looked into files and did some research, and it looks like Mrs Targaryen is a huge fan of literally everyone that bears the name Targaryen, so getting her to buy and donate some documents, uniforms and maps of a group of partisans a great-grandaunt of hers lead back in the forties shouldn’t be too difficult. She’s prepared, or so she thinks, until she reaches the counter where Beth’s selling tickets to an elderly couple and sees ~~her handsome, but nameless friend~~ the stranger that makes her laugh sometimes.

 

He’s just as attractive and awkward looking as always, but there’s a silver-haired little girl sitting on his shoulders, two children with dark curls chase each other around him, and a gorgeous woman whose hair is just as pale as the little girl’s promising them pizza and ice-cream for dinner if they behave. When Sansa finally manages to come out of hiding, and walks around the corner, the woman is gone, and he smiles at her as if he was really happy to see her. It’s the kind of smile that makes her hope – again – that he’ll ask for her number.

 

But he’s in a relationship, and he has three children, so that’ll never happen. They’ll stay friends, if she could even call them that, and she’ll bury all her hope like she did so many times.

 

* * *

 

“The details are incredible.”, the woman next to her says, and Sansa looks up from her notepad and smiles. “Yes, they are. Lions were Queen Cersei Baratheon’s favourite motives, so everything had to be decorated with them.” She walks over to the young woman, who is about her age, and continues, “70 women embroidered this canopy, and they hired new workers regularly because their eyesight got bad after a few months of work.”

 

“Mhm.” The visitor nods along, before she turns to Sansa and smiles brightly at her. “You know a lot.” “Oh, the War of the Five King’s is one of my favourite eras. Do you want to know more about it? I could give you a small tour, if you’d like.” “Oh, no, I don’t want to bother you with that. And- I’m not actually here to learn about history. I wanted to talk to you on a personal matter, if that’s okay for you.”

 

Sansa raises her brows at that and eyes the other woman suspiciously – the burgundy red suit and black polished stilettos, the short wavy hair and thick glasses, the briefcase in her perfectly manicured hands – takes a step back. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I know you, Ms…?” “Oh”, the stranger exclaims, her smile still broad and white, “Rhaenys Martell-Qorgyle. I think you know my brother, Jon Snow. He comes here quite often, tall, dark hair, the quiet and broody type. You gave him and my son Ollie a tour last week.”

 

“Oh.”, is all Sansa says at that. His name is Jon. Jon _Snow_ , not Targaryen like the silver haired beauty he came here with last week, and the little boy with the dark eyes and dark hair isn’t his son, but his nephew. But the two little girls that looked like a cross between him and Mrs Targaryen with their purple eyes- “Yes, he’s such a good _uncle_ , we’d all be lost without him.” The way Rhaenys emphasises the ‘uncle’-part makes her wonder whether she just wants to talk or if she’s trying to make sure that Sansa knows how awesome – and _single_ – Jon is.

 

“Yeah, he’s really good with children. How he managed to explain king Aerys’ madness to Gael without frightening her – it was _amazing_.”, she sighs, remembering how the little girl clung to her father, and Rhaenys nods in agreement, her black eyes that look so much like Ollies staring absently at the display of several gowns that belonged to queen Cersei.

 

“He’s trying to be a father figure for the girls. It’s a real shame that their _real_ father doesn’t care about them too much, but at least they have an uncle like Jon. Or, rather, a cousin. It’s a bit complicated.”, she smiles at Sansa again, but it’s a sad smile. “He’s a romantic at heart, and we all know that he’d love to have a girlfriend and start a family, but… he’s still single. We all hope that he’ll find love with someone.”

 

Rhaenys shrugs and sighs and looks at her watch. “I’m really sorry, but I have to go now and pick Ollie up from kindergarten.”, and with that, she on her way to the exit, throwing a short “Don’t tell him about this, okay?” over her shoulder before she disappears behind a pillar, leaving Sansa alone with her confusion and the guilt that’s even stronger now that she knows that Jon’s single and that there wasn’t a reason for her to ignore him during the two times he came to the museum since that damned tour.

 

* * *

 

He’s standing in front of Durran again when she sees him the next time, but is gaze is unfocused and he flinches in surprise when she leans over and whispers “Hey.” And the way he _looks_ at her – as if she was a unicorn or a siren, beautiful and frail, and he afraid of startling her, or driving her away, and there’s a slight pain in her heart as if she’d been stabbed – and she looks away, stares at the painting, and asks him if he wants to go the coffee shop a few houses down the road with her sometime. Staring at Durran’s impressive moustache, he says ‘ _yes’_.

 

* * *

 

“Wow. That’s so _cool_. And she was really my great-great-great-grand-auntie?” Eleana stares at her with wide eyes for a moment, just long enough for Sansa to nod, before the girl’s attention’s drawn back to the pictures of Lady Shiera Targaryen in her tactical uniform, ready to blow up a train or two, framed by maps showing the railway lines she and her group sabotaged during the war.

 

“She was a very brave woman and fought for justice”, Sansa tells her, “and I’m really happy that your mother donated so much and told my boss to give her an exhibition, so that more people can learn about her and the other partisans. Even if it’s just her dork of a nephew is my boyfriend.” Grinning up at Jon, she leans back against his muscular chest and plants a kiss on his jaw.

 

“And here I was, thinking you choose me for my _incredibly_ smart humour and extraordinary good looks.”, he grumbles, making the children laugh loudly, before he kisses her, _deeply_ , while Olyvar groans in annoyance and the girls sigh because it’s so _romantic_.


End file.
